The Final Meet
by ky-san
Summary: Harry has finally had enough of the Dursleys, so with only his wand to guide him to sets off to London, meeting a few different people along the way.


The Final Meet By: Ky  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my laptop that I write with.  
  
It was another of those sultry days at Privet Drive. Harry Potter lay, on his bed, sweating and brooding. It wasn't the same as all the last summers he had endured. The shadows seemed to lurk around each corner, threatening to overcome him, darkness came earlier that it had last year, and it cast blackness through the barred window of his bedroom. Of course, this was all in Harry's mind, as he was in some kind of shock from what happened at the end of last year.  
  
Sirius fell through the veil, as it swallowed him whole. Claiming him and dragging him where Harry could not follow.  
  
Harry tortured himself, blaming himself. What was worse was the Dursleys. They had seemed to sense his weakness, and were enjoying taking advantage of him. Any chance they could they would hiss comments about Sirius in front of Harry. He masked how much this stung, not wanting for them to get that satisfaction of hurting him, yet each sly insult left a gaping hole in him.  
  
Harry ran a hand through his hair, peering at himself through the mirror. His own skinny pale features stared back at him through the same emerald orbs that were an ocean full of pain. He blinked, almost startled by his own appearance. It was hard to tie the once life-loving, happy, crazy teenager among the sorrowful pale being in front of him. If anyone walked by the only way they could tell he was the famous Harry Potter was the legendary scar that still sat, as plain as ever, on his ashen forehead. That had seemingly been the only thing that hadn't changed over the summer.  
  
His cheekbones jutted out in an unhealthy way, and his long black eyelashes contrasted greatly to his white cheeks. He seemed like a stranger even to himself. Drawn back into his own emotions, drowning in them night after night. His eyes had grown tired of crying from all those nights he woke up after a nightmare of that night with the veil. After nights like those he would curl up in his own corner and cry silently, feeling sorry for Sirius and all those who were dieing right now. Again, he was left in the dark this summer, but this time no anger followed. He was almost grateful of Dumbledore for ordering them not, again, to tell him anything. Instead his fury was fueled by himself, and how to every owl he replied he was fine. He couldn't admit that he was silently drowning in his own grief, and he desperately wanted to just make it end.  
  
Light filtered through the bars on his window, making odd patterns through his room, chasing out the shadows that he had become so friendly to. Morning again, another day lived, another day Sirius could have lived, another day he had to live with his own conscience. Sighing he tilted his head back and it hit with a bang on the metal frame of his bed. Dursey one, two and three would soon be awake, to yet again push him and poke him about Sirius. Every day was just that, another day. At the Dursley's life was just shut-up, don't ask questions, do your chores, go to bed. Harry had dropped so low as to not even say a word while he was at his Aunts and Uncle's. It seemed to make things easier if he didn't say sarcastic comments back to his relative's snide ones. He found things were much easier if you just nodded, shook you head, or shrugged.  
  
Not that he knew that he hadn't talked forever; he was too wrapped up in his own emotions. Quite like a habit you get, but don't know when you do it.  
  
Pounding on the stairs meant that Vernon was up, followed by a crash from the room next to him, his aunt had tried to get Dudley up, to no avail. Harry sighed. Mentally he counted 3...2...1...  
  
"Get up you!" His aunt's high-pitched voice barked through his door, followed by a stream of obnoxious rapping.  
  
Grabbing his glasses he shoved them on his nose and changed his cloths before waiting for a second. A series of clicks and clanks from outside his door meant his door was unlocked. He quickly masked his face of dread with a tired look as he opened the door.  
  
His aunt had already gone downstairs, so sadly he made himself follow down the stairs. As he made his way into the pristine kitchen. His uncle was already munching on a piece of toast, scanning through the newspaper. Harry saw his moustache quiver as he entered the room, but he didn't say a word to him as he seated himself down in a chair and picked up a piece of toast.  
  
With a grunt Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes on a certain article in the paper.  
  
"More funny deaths." He stated, turning his piggy eyes on Harry as if he knew what was going on. Of course Harry knew, and his heart sunk when Vernon stated more deaths. More and more people added to the list of murders by Voldemort and his minions. Vernon knew that Harry wouldn't answer, so instead he turned the page and started scanning again.  
  
Harry turned his face down to his plate. He had eaten half of his toast, and was suddenly not very hungry anymore. His uncle thought his silence a game, and spent most of his time trying to get Harry to burst. Harry could tell that him not talking was really getting on his poor uncle's nerves. All the better to keep it up, Harry thought.  
  
Harry spent the remaining of breakfast picking at his toast, until Vernon yelled at him to stop. Pursing his lips Harry quickly shoved the remainder of his toast in his mouth, although the bread didn't have the same kind of taste it had before he knew more people had died. Swallowing thickly he turned his green eyes onto his uncle and watched disgusted as he flipped through the newspaper without a second though about those families that had just died, humming a tune from the TV as he went.  
  
For some reason this, more than anything else, sent little pinpricks of fury though him, making him tremble in his seat as he watch the calm man hum as if this was just another beautiful day. Vernon glanced up and caught Harry's narrow-eyed stare.  
  
"What are you doing? Plotting your next murder?" he asked in an amused tone. This, however, was quite the wrong thing to say, as Harry's self-control was wavering a thin line. Harry had never been very good at controlling his anger, and this, more than anything, would be his downfall. And he knew it.  
  
With a scream Harry launched himself at his uncle. Time seemed to stop, and forks and spoons were hurling around in the air around the tiny kitchen. An unnatural wind was sweeping though the room, making Aunt Petunia's apron whip around like a flag. She whimpered as she watched her nephew attack her husband.  
  
Tensely she tried to put a hand between Harry and Vernon to stop the swell of punches coming off of Harry and Vernon, but this only resulted with Harry getting agitated at the obstacle. With a yelp she withdrew her hand as a magical shock swept through it.  
  
Both Harry and his uncle were panting from effort; they were rolling on the ground. Sixteen years of misery were now fueling Harry, as hatred for all wizard kind was fueling Vernon. It seemed almost comical that a skinny sixteen-year-old had given a grown man a black eye, but Harry's shape was no better as a crimson substance was slowly oozing from his left nostril.  
  
The only sounds were the screams of fury from them both and the occasional thunk of a hard punch landing in the right spot. Little did they realize a tawny owl was anxiously pecking the window. It wasn't heard, however, among the excitement.  
  
Finally with a well aimed punch to Vernon's stomach they parted, panting as if they run a marathon. Harry was leaning on the table for support, his teeth gritting in anger, and his eyes sparking with danger. Vernon was lying on the ground, a hand around his waist. His face as red as ever in fury, and his eyes full of hatred.  
  
Suddenly with unknown speed Uncle Vernon quickly grabbed Harry and started to kick and punch, his beefy hands balled into fists. Harry, caught unprepared, went down and gasped as a kick hit him in his arm. Getting free of his uncle's wrath Harry held out his hand, and with a zoom his wand flew into it.  
  
Harry glanced down with hatred at his uncle, it was taking all his self-control to stop himself from cursing his uncle, but instead he spit at his feet and walked out the door, as it flew open when he got near.  
  
Now he tread the same path he did when he was in the third year. Anger completely clouding his mind he took off running, in a different direction then he had gone before. He had enough, he had taken in enough. Enough was enough and he was, at the moment, going to run away. Running away from the only family he had left, running away from his pain, from his life, from being, well, Harry. He didn't want to be Harry Potter anymore, not the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. He knew it was childish, but hey, it was his birthday, and a day without being with the Dursley's was present enough.  
  
The owl, left, unnoticed, and flew back to its owner. The Weasleys'. It had been the letter for his birthday, bringing him a bag of candy and a card. As soon as Mrs. Weasley saw it she burst into tears. Surly Harry would send back his present. Harry wasn't Percy. There must be something wrong for him to have sent it back.  
  
Ron stumbled into the kitchen, still in his pajamas. He rubbed his eyes and sat down, glanced across the table to the window where his mom was hastily drying her eyes. Raising an eyebrow he got up and looked at what she was holding. It was her present to Harry.  
  
"What's the matter?" he asked, peering at his mother.  
  
Harry sat on the muggle bus. His wand was his only belonging. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass and watched as the yellow line on the pavement whipped by faster and faster. The bus was packed with the early commute to work, and they glanced at the ill-looking boy before passing him to go to the next seat.  
  
Pretty soon a lady sat next to him. She had a large hat on that had a brim on it so large it was rubbing up against Harry's head. Frowning he didn't say anything. The lady was to busy rubbing the wrinkles out of her plaid skirt and putting eyeliner on. One word, Harry thought to himself as the gigantic hat hit him again, knocking his glasses askew, ask someone. She seemed to be cosmetically obsessive, Harry decided as she lathered layer after layer of eye shadow on. He wondered what she would use next, ah, lipstick. Harry mentally shook his head and returned to peering out the window.  
  
As the passed into the city limits of London Harry focused on his reflection in the window rather than the yellow lines. No wonder everyone was avoiding him, he still had the blood on his face from his nose, and purple bruises were showing up all over his face, standing out hugely against his pale features.  
  
He took the sleeve of his shirt and feebly tried to wipe the dried blood off his face, as for the bruises maybe he could buy some sort of flesh colored makeup to hide that, as well as his scar. Brightening considerably he stepped off the bus and was immediately swept away by the pushing crowd. As it was about eight the people of London would be trying to get to work. He quickly wormed his way through the crowd to a bench.  
  
Sitting down he stopped to think of what his plan would be now. He knew he wanted to get some cover-up to hide his scar and bruises. Just for a while, he thought, he could live as just a regular boy and not have to worry about being whisked away to sign hats and parchment. For just a while he didn't have to be Harry Potter.  
  
Now how long poor Harry sat on the cold bench he didn't know. The dreary smog of the city and constant drizzle quickly weighed down his spirits. The people clamored along, hunched over with umbrellas, oblivious to everything else but getting to their destination. They were all grey, Harry thought, and for one wild moment he almost wished for the Cosmetic Queen on the bus. It would be different then the dreary blue and grey haze. He felt suffocated, packed like sardines in the traffic and people.  
  
His head, always quick to throb these days, started to ache. So here he was, all alone, without money, with only a wand and his cloths.  
  
Suddenly a soft hand lay on his shoulder, rubbing it gently. Harry glanced up wildly at the owner of the hand, only to stare into the face of the Cosmetic Queen, hat and all. She didn't say anything, just peered out across the busy street. It seemed like for a moment the only people standing around watching what was happening were them, the rest of the people where to wrapped up in getting to work to notice her crazy hat nor the beaten up youth that sat motionless on the bench.  
  
"Ugly isn't it?" She asked Harry in a dreamy voice that reminded him of Professor Trelawney. She scrunched her nose as the exhaust from a nearby car passed by.  
  
Harry didn't quite no what to say to this, so with a hesitant nod he turned back to watched the people hurry by. After a while they all seemed to melt into a blur of grey.  
  
"Depressing." Harry whispered to her, he was beginning to like Cosmetic Queen more and more.  
  
She glanced down at him before grabbing his arm and helping him up. Shakily he swayed for a second before getting his bearings. However he made it through the crowd he didn't know, as now he seemed to be feeding of the woman's strength.  
  
"Come, let's get you cleaned up." She said softly, still looking out at the crowd as if talking more about London then Harry. Harry grinned to himself at this comment.  
  
He didn't know quite why he was allowing him to be steered through the crown and into a foreign house, but something about the Cosmetic Queen told him she wasn't about to kill him. She, with her silly hat and gypsy- like cosmetics, didn't look quite lethal to him. So he followed her through the ugly boxes that were houses, though the steaming cement, noisy pubs, and giant sky-scrapers.  
  
The lady occasionally shook her head at different things as she walked by, like the troubled teenager that was smoking along the street sending toxic fumes to the nearby citizens. Or the jackhammer that noisily pounded the cement out of the sidewalk, making Harry's head pound with such force he had to shut his eyes.  
  
After what seemed like forever he found himself out of the city and into less crowded areas. Suddenly they stopped at a bright red house. It had roses along the walkway up to the front door and as they passed by the lady commented, 'Roses are like the environment, beautiful, but fragile' Harry found this quite amusing coming from a lady that lathered her face with cosmetics.  
  
The brightness of the red house made it stand out like a sore thumb among the white ones that were scattered about. Harry liked it. As he walked up to the door a black and white cat shot by his legs and quickly disappeared behind the knarly rose bushes.  
  
The lady opened the door with a slight push and beckoned him inside. 


End file.
